By God's Grace
by sweetrupturedlight
Summary: A series of prompts where Aramis rises in the Church and under a new persona, returns to Anne and his sons
1. Someday Is Better Than Never

**a/n: These stories started out as separate prompts and were initially posted separately. But as other prompts arrived, the world has expanded and its now woven into a little series. I have consolidated them here for ease of reading and to make it easier to follow. **

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The Dauphin was three years old when the Royal family were forced to flee the Louvre because of civil unrest. Anne's reaction was to seek asylum at the convent she'd always viewed as her place of refuge. Her Musketeers however, disagreed. The abbey too well known as a place the Queen might go to seek sanctuary. The King would be taken to another location, but she would journey with Constance and the Dauphin. It would not bode well to have the family travelling collectively. Should they be discovered, they might all be killed together, throwing the monarchy into anarchy.

Riding under cover of night, Anne kept her head down, gritting her teeth against the ferocious pace. Although so long ago, fleeing thus reminded her of the day she'd been rescued from the Louvre by her Musketeers and spirited away to safety. The day _he_ had come for her, begging her to escape.

Just behind her, her son rode with Porthos, resting against the broad chest of the Musketeer. Louis had a particular fondness for Porthos, his favourite of the King's Musketeers. This was no doubt due to the fact that he always made a point of interacting with Louis when there was cause to do so. Her heart squeezed a little. Her son would never know he lay against the shoulder of the man who was his father's best friend.

"How far Captain?" she called, her horse drawing close to Athos.

"Across the hill your Majesty. Less than thirty minutes and we will be there." Athos slowed his pace a little, looking over to Anne.

"Captain?" She could tell there was something on his mind by the way his shoulders straightened just a little more than usual.

"I should warn your Majesty... our destination is the monastery at Douai."

"I had guessed as much when we headed north." Anne cast a sidelong glance to the usually stoic Captain who looked utterly uncomfortable with the current topic. She knew what he was thinking. She'd been thinking the same thing.

Aramis had retired to Douai three years before. While Constance told her he wrote occasionally, she had not seen, nor heard from him since the day Rochefort had been killed. She had no idea how he fared, how well he had adapted to monastic life, whether he thought about her – about _them_ – as much as she did about him.

The closer they galloped, the more anticipation gripped her. Would he be the same man she'd once loved – _still_ loved?

They rode in silence, wrapped in their own thoughts. At the entrance to the large stone monastery, Athos waved their delegation in before dismounting and shouting to D'artagnan to help him secure the gates. Monks flooded into the courtyard, scurrying to determine the source of the commotion.

"Apologies Father," Athos said as he addressed one of the monks. "We are in need of asylum."

"Our humble home is no place for conflict Monsieur-"

"I travel with the Queen of France and the Dauphin." Athos gestured towards Anne who nodded at the monks gathered around.

The Father bowed low. "Apologies. Her Majesty and the Dauphin are always welcome." He clapped his hands and two of his brothers appeared. "Ready rooms for our guests."

Athos waited until the instructions had been dispensed before casting a quick look at Anne. He stepped close and asked, "There is one among you who we have an acquaintance with."

The monk nodded, his expression not in the least surprised. "I believe I might know to whom you refer." Again he clapped and a tall, lanky adolescent appeared. "Please send for our young brother."

Anne stood impatiently, surprised to feel the palms of her hands sweating. She wiped them on the front of her gown and clasped them serenely in front of her, trying not to fidget. Although mere minutes, it felt as though time stood still in the moments before he arrived. From the opposite side of the courtyard Aramis appeared, striding with purpose. His gait, all determined in its function, was not one suited to a monastery where everything seemed to happen at a leisurely pace. Watching the single-minded economy of his movement, Anne felt butterflies flap on the inside of her belly.

He looked as vital as ever, even without leather and weapons strapped to his body. Anne forgot herself and stared shamelessly. Wearing the black voluminous robes of the order, Aramis walked towards their party. He had not cut his hair, but his beard had been trimmed somewhat, giving him a slightly more refined air. She tried to take in as much of him as possible, noting the thin leather belt around his waist, his only adornment - she was pleased to note - the jewelled crucifix she had gifted to him so long ago.

"I believe you know these men," Father Julian said.

Aramis nodded, a smile already teasing the corners of his lips. His eyes were alight with humour and pure joy. "I do."

"Well then, invite them in."

The father turned, leaving Aramis with the Musketeers and the Queen's small entourage. It took all but a minute before D'artagnan launched himself into his arms. Next was Athos, slightly more restrained. But it was Porthos whose embrace brought tears to Anne's eyes. The two men, the best friends, clung to each other tightly, clapping each other on the back repeatedly.

"Damn, but black seems to be your colour."

"Is there any colour that is not made for me, Porthos?"

"A man of God does not covet vanity."

Aramis rolled his eyes, but there was a lightness around him so reminiscent of the essence she attributed to him. As he pulled back, his eyes took in their larger party and his smile dimmed somewhat as it landed on her. For the first time in her life, words seemed to fail her. Should she smile broadly as she wished to, feign indifference or politely acknowledge his presence? In the end, a small smile and a nod of recognition was all she could muster.

Anne stepped forward, her palms moist again. "Aramis."

Her eyes found his and every bit of longing stored there called out to him. As if an invisible string existed between them, they took tentative steps towards each other until he stood before her. If she reached out, she could touch his cheek, caress his hand or place her palm across his heart. Of course, she did nothing of the sort.

"Majesty." He bowed, but not very low, his eyes peeking up at her, reminding her of all the other times he had addressed her as such. For a minute she had forgotten they were not alone. His eyes darted behind her to the child who rested in Constance's arms. Automatically, he took a small step back. The spell had been broken.

"The Queen and the Dauphin need rest. Please, this way."

Anne and Constance followed, walking through simple stone corridors. The monastery was sparse, just like the convent, every piece of furniture serving a specific purpose, nothing in excess. Aramis entered a small chamber with a narrow bed, one chair and a single candle. He opened a connecting door that lead into another room, roughly the same size with no additional amenities.

"Constance might sleep here. I am sorry the accommodations are not more comfortable."

"We have made do with the same before," Anne said, her eyes flitting briefly to his. "We humbly do so again."

"Your Majesty," Constance began. "I should put the Dauphin to bed."

Anne nodded. "Of course. Forgive me, please, see to my son."

The boy had awoken now, his cheeks rosy with sleep. Constance moved but he saw his mother and cried out. At three, he was tall and hardy, his hair a wild mop of dark brown hair. Deep blue eyes filled with tears born from being over stimulated and tired.

"I'll take him for a minute," Anne said, knowing it was the only way he might settle.

"I'll find D'artagnan and see what can be done about securing a meal," Constance offered, brushing Louis's hair from his eyes.

"Let me show you-" Aramis began.

"Wait," Anne called. She saw him halt, his back towards her. She had to be a fool not to notice the way his shoulders tensed. Constance looked at her with apprehension, but Anne nodded to her, silently requesting some privacy.

When the door clicked shut behind her, Anne readjusted her son. "You are well, Aramis? Monastic life seems to suit."

He turned then and looked at her, sheepish. "I am but a novice," he said with a small smile. "Father Benedici refers to me as _the one under obedience_." Aramis shifted on his feet, his hands resting on his hips. Then, as if he remembered himself, his hands moved and clasped piously in front of his abdomen. "He is not convinced that I am able to fully conform to this life." His words were simple, a straightforward truth.

"You did not have to do this, Aramis."

"I know." The child whimpered again and his voice trailed off. "I chose to."

Anne shifted the Dauphin. "Would you like to meet a Musketeer?" she asked the boy.

His eyes went wide, taking in the man before him. He looked at his mother and Anne smiled encouragingly. "This is Monsieur Aramis, the bravest of all the King's Musketeers."

"Porthos," her son said with the candour of a child.

Against his will, a chuckle escaped Aramis and it warmed Anne's heart. "Among the bravest - _once_," he added. "But I do not object to losing the title to Porthos."

"Would you meet my son?"

She saw the pain in his eyes, but also the thrill. Against his better judgement he reached out and touched the boy's soft curls. "He is handsome," he said, unable to hide the pride in his voice.

"Yes, yes he is," she said with an eager smile. "And strong, bright and curious. He is an adventurer, Aramis." She needed him to know. It was important that he know just how much their child was like him.

Their eyes met and clung and everything that had always been between them weaved its magic. She felt the chemistry, the connection, the inevitable force of their impossible love. But his hand dropped from the child's head and he stepped back.

"I will see to your food. If there is anything you need, ask Constance. She will find me."

She wanted to say something, _anything_ to keep him with her a moment longer. But there was a gentle knock at the door and Constance returned. Aramis nodded to her as he left, not looking back.

Anne was surprised by the conflicting emotions at war inside of her. Her elation at seeing him was tempered by the grave knowledge of the pain that awaited her the minute she would have to leave him.

"Are you alright?" Constance enquired, her eyes clouded with worry.

Anne nodded bravely. "Let me see to my son."

Constance readied a small bath and Anne fed him before he was put to bed. The sun had set now and the monastery was eerily quiet. Constance readied Anne for bed before moving to the small antechamber where the Dauphin slept.

"Constance, no. Please, go find your husband."

"Your Majesty, my place is at your side."

Anne shook her head reassuringly. "We are in a monastery. Louis is exhausted and will sleep without interruption. You have scarcely seen D'artagnan today. Go. I will see you in the morning."

"Are you sure? What if he wakes-"

"Then I shall see to him."

"Will you not eat something first?"

"Constance," Anne said, exasperated. "Go."

Constance hugged her. "Thank you. I will return by sunrise."

Alone in the room, Anne checked on her son again. With arms flung out wide, he slept soundly and she was sure, would not wake at all. The ride had been long and arduous, not easy for a child his age.

There was a soft knock at the door and she waited expectantly as it opened, thinking she'd have to scold Constance. Her heat skipped a beat when Aramis stood at the threshold. He looked uncomfortable, sorry even, to be intruding.

"I brought some candles. With the Dauphin... you might need more light."

"Thank you." That was all she could manage to say from across the room.

"I looked for Constance, but she is with D'artagnan and I did not wish to disturb them," he continued by way of an explanation she did not need.

"That was wise." They stared at each other in silence. "I asked her to seek him out. It has been a trying day and there was no need for her to remain with me," Anne rambled, desperate to keep him with her for a moment longer.

Aramis frowned, his eyes darting to the anti-chamber. "The Dauphin-"

"Is fast asleep. He will not wake this night."

He nodded and turned to leave but then remembered the candles in his hand. Moving towards her, he held them out.

Anne looked at them, then at him. He was so close now that she involuntarily took a step closer. She reached for the offering and their hands brushed. The small contact was heady. Her eyes flickered to his, but he was looking at their fingers. Gently, she brushed her hand across his again, closing her eyes and swallowing at the intensity of the feelings stirring to life inside of her.

"Anne," he cautioned, squeezing his eyes shut. She knew then he felt it too, the same weakness.

"I know," she whispered. His fingers wrapped around hers until he held her hand.

"Aramis," she murmured, nothing more than an agonised whisper of longing as their fingers lacing tightly.

"I know," he growled before yanking her forward, his lips crushing against hers.

The kiss was explosive, heated and ardent. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him close lest he see fit to end the contact. But he was in no mood to stop. Scooping her into his arms, Aramis carried her to the narrow bed and lay her down. Willingly, Anne opened her arms to him and welcomed him home. Hands roamed and lips paid homage with beloved reverence. When he sank into her, she sighed, drawing his lips back to hers, wrapping herself around his body.

"Anne," he whispered raggedly in her ear, over and over again as he moved inside her, eventually finding his release. But still it wasn't enough. Sated kisses turned passionate with little encouragement as their bodies moved together again and again.

Anne nuzzled against him, content for the first time in almost four years. The reality was sobering and she pushed the dark thoughts away, leaning over and pressing her lips to the crucifix that lay against his heart.

"I should go," he whispered, his lips placing a soft kiss to her forehead. Anne lay in his arms, a leg carelessly draped across his.

"Not yet, please."

"I will be missed at midnight mass. I must go."

She moved back, trying to look into his eyes but the room was too dim. With one final kiss to her brow, he moved and slipped back into his robes. Anne too dressed, pulling her nightdress over her head.

"I am a novice," he said slowly, pushing her hair behind her ear. "After three years here, I am still a novice."

"Will you leave the order?" She couldn't help but hold her breath.

When he shook his head, her heart sank; more devastated than she had a right to be. He dedicated himself to God. There was no greater cause.

Aramis clasped her hands, pressing it fervently to his lips.

"I have not been able to commit to my duty because I've been trapped in the past, unable to see the future... to fully accept this as my life. There was no closure for us, nothing to bring our lives full circle."

"I do not understand." _Was this closure?_ Her entire being rebelled at the thought. _Was this the end?_

Gathering her into his arms, he buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply. Anne held on to him, unsure of what he meant.

"I cannot be a Musketeer and within your sphere. It is too dangerous for you and for the Dauphin. I have a duty here and in order to exist in your world, I must fulfil it. I must become a different man. A man of God."

Clarity dawned. "Aramis... the Church?"

He nodded, bearing the relieved, satisfied look of a man who had made a decision about his future.

"But it could be years."

"Someday is better than never." He pressed his lips to hers and with her hand in his, walked into the adjoining chamber. Their son lay asleep, unaware of the emotional weight his existence caused. Aramis kneeled beside him, pressing his lips to the boy's forehead in a protracted kiss. Sweeping the rebellious strands off his brow, Aramis smiled down at his son with undisguised pride. _They were so alike_, Anne thought. Seeing them side-by-side broke and mended her spirit in equal portions.

"God go with you," he whispered to the child, pressing another kiss to his tiny hand before turning to Anne. Her eyes filled with tears. "I cannot say goodbye."

"Then don't." His voice was calm and assured, a man at peace. He pressed their foreheads together. "One day, this duty, will bring me back to you and our son." It was a vow reflected in his dark, smiling eyes.

With a final bittersweet kiss, Aramis departed. Despite her sadness, Anne felt a keen sense of hope, of renewal. The feeling proved fortuitous.

Nine months later, Anne birthed another son, Philippe I, Duke of Orléans. Like his brother, he too inherited his father's wayward hair and adventurous spirit.

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_a/n: This is for _**drakedoremus** _and the wonderful_ **toooldforthisreally** _on tumblr. _


	2. Salvation

It was after midnight mass when Aramis retreated to his small, functional room, the candle he carried casting fleeting halos and long shadows across the walls as he journeyed. The room was sparse - just a bed and a wooden desk - and so clean, he could eat from the floor if inclined to do so. Life at the abbey was a constant cycle of calm introspection, devout supplication and the satisfaction of productive labour in the yard or gardens. As sincere as his penance was, his love of the outdoors was undeniable. And so exerting energy while planting crops, mending fences or any other form of manual labour across the compound offered him a different kind of peace.

The abbey was quiet as he shut the door to his small cell - no shuffling feet, no bells or chimes to signify the call to prayer. This was the least active time at the monastery. Most of the order took a few hours sleep before the progression of reflection and worship began anew. He found it the perfect time – the _only_ time – when he allowed himself to think for a while on the life he had had before he came to Douai. _Small doses._ This was all he could manage. Anything more immersive and experience taught him that the yearning for a different life, the cravings to be a part of a different brotherhood became too much to bear. He had turned from that life – for good reason, the best of reasons. But that did not mean he did not relish when news arrived from his brothers in Paris.

Drawing the single candle near, Aramis unfolded the letter that had been delivered for him that morning. From the untidy scrawl on the front, he knew it was from Porthos. As such, he also knew it would be filled with a candid account of life at court. Porthos had very little patience for courtly protocols. His letters were therefore a refreshing departure from Athos's more factual, analytical accounts. D'artagnan's letters spoke little of court intrigue. They were amusing because they mostly requested Aramis's advice on how to deal with women – _one_ woman in particular. As a married man, his young friend was struggling to balance life as a soldier and the demands of life as a husband.

_Aramis (should I bloody call you Father yet?)_

_I still cannot believe you've turned me into one of those writin' types._ [Aramis grinned, able to picture just how grumpy Porthos must have been as he penned the note.]_ You know how much I find it a waste of good time. Right this minute some of the lads 'ave quite a large wager on whether Renaud or Villeneuve will make it through Musketeer training. You remember them, eh? One tall an' skinny as musket, the other awkward an' useless with the ladies – even the payin' kind. And instead of putting the right fear of God in 'im, I'm writing a bloody letter to you. _[Aramis's grin spread. Oh how he missed his friend.]_ Athos says I should shut it and stop complainin'. Truth is, I miss you yeah? As much as I love Athos and the young one, they both lack finesse when it comes to charming the ladies. I find my success with the opposite sex has been severely compromised without your idiotic – but pretty - face to reel 'um in. _[Aramis had no doubt. The issue was not because of looks – Porthos had many an admirer. But like D'artagnan, he failed to understand the subtle nuances one had to employ when wooing a woman. Aramis chuckled. Perhaps he should provide some insightful instruction in his reply; put Porthos out of his misery.]_ The lads miss you too. Bloody hell, we all do._ [Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose. Dear God, he missed them too. More than he would ever admit to. It was best his friends believe him in a place of peace and contentment. Mostly, he was content and determined. But if he spoke of anything contrary, Porthos would ride to Douai and never leave without him.]

_Samira wrote to say she's headin' this way and might pass through Paris. Said she'd keep in touch, never thought she actually meant it. It's been a while. But I can't say it won't be a right treat to see her again. Feisty she was. Yeah. I think I'm lookin' forward to it_. [Ah, he likes her, Aramis thought. All the more reason to pen some notes on wooing, he reminded himself.]

_Ah bloody hell. I think a fight is brewing in the courtyard. Best I go and encourage the violence. _[Aramis could picture Porthos's excitement at the mere thought.]

_Oi, before I forget. The King is in the best of spirits. Yeah, urm… Her Majesty, The Queen… _[Aramis felt his heartbeat increase a little, knowing Porthos would not mention her if he did not have to. The fact that he wrote now with so many ellipses separating his thoughts was testament to how he struggled to find the right words. Aramis felt his eyes skip ahead, trying to take in as much of the words as possible.] _I urm… don't suppose it's the type of news that'd be of interest to a monastery filled with men who've abandoned worldly pursuits, but yeah… Her Majesty birthed another son. Don't think I told you she was pregnant in my last letter. Thought it best not to… you know…_

[The sentence ended right there and Aramis knew why. Porthos had not wanted to remind him of the past, of what he had sacrificed and how much he missed her – _them_ – daily. The letter fluttered to the table as shock stiffened his hands. _Birthed another son?_ Anne had another child? Aramis did not need to count back to know. He knew. The one night she had spent in sanctuary, the night he vowed to return to her someday, had resulted in another pregnancy. Aramis ran his hands through his hair, unable to decide how he felt about the news. His hands fisted, pulling almost painfully at the strands. He had _another_ son. His conscious reminded him that the child could actually be the King's, a true heir. But his heart knew better. He picked up the letter again and scanned the rest of the contents.]

_As you can imagine, His Majesty is right impressed and because of it, the Musketeers have gained some favour. Might be cause the Minister aint havin' none of his- _[Again the sentence ended abruptly and Aramis could imagine Porthos biting his tongue. Instead, he continued on his previous tack.] _We attended the boy's christening last week. He is Philippe, Duke of Orléans. Has a pair of lungs I tell you. Screamed the entire time. Couldn't blame him if I'm honest. It was hot, he was in that bloody jeweled gown and the Priest kept prattling on and on_. [Aramis laughed involuntarily because Porthos had written as an afterthought, "I'm sure you know what I mean."]

_Aramis, when you start christening babies, a word of advice yeah? Keep it short. Bloody hell, I think Athos - I mean, the Captain _[Porthos had underlined the word Captain a few times]_ \- has entered the yard. Means all the funs about to end. I've got to head downstairs, see if I can salvage my stake in the wager._

_Write soon, eh? And don't leave out any of the riveting details. You know how I love hearing about midnight mass and afternoon mass and morning mass and how many other types of mass is there yeah? Too bloody many, if you ask me. _[Aramis grinned again because Porthos had boldly scrawled, SORRY at the dig.]

_Your brother, Porthos._

Aramis fingered the bold, inked "P" and shook his head. Porthos really did on occasion have the flair for the dramatic. He reread the note again, committing what he could to memory before touching the corner to the candle's flame. A letter, the sentiment attached to it, was categorised as a worldly possession. It would not be appropriate for him to hold onto any of them. He never did.

_A son._ Anne had birthed another son. He had never imagined himself as a father, much less one who had two sons he could never claim. Would Philippe look like him? Or would he, like the Dauphin, favour Anne in most respects? Pinching his eyes shut, he cursed under his breath and immediately stopped his train of thought. It would not do him any good to ponder it. His time for reflection was past. But he allowed himself a moment of joy – only a moment – as he strengthened his vow. Someday he would return to Anne. And to both his sons.

Reaching for the crucifix around his neck, Aramis pressed it to his lips, sending a quick prayer to the heavens. He had made his share of mistakes and hoped the penance in this lifetime would be enough to secure his salvation.

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_a/n: This story is for LadyofGlencairn who sent me the prompt via tumblr - How does Aramis discover Anne's second pregnancy. Thank you for reading x_


	3. A Perception

Louis, Dauphin of France was ten years old when he began to suspect that everything was not as it seemed. Born to privilege, he was mostly sheltered from news or salacious gossip thought inappropriate for a young royal to bear witness to. Louis never knew his father, the King of France, who had died when he was only four, too young to have any tangible recollection of the monarch. He thought he remembered what he looked like but couldn't be sure if it was a true likeness or just the memory born from the paintings that decorated the walls of the Louvre.

One morning when he'd been playing at hiding from his beloved governess Constance, he happened upon a whispered conversation between two servants. They were older women, but their tongues and minds seemed sharp to someone so young. Speaking rapidly, one regaled the other with the tale of a scandal that had blown through the French court a decade earlier. While the rumours had died as soon as it had surfaced, there had been talk for an almost infinitesimal amount of time, that he was not the son of the King, but the son of a soldier, a Musketeer.

Louis didn't really understand why they would say such a thing, or why in the years that followed, the hurried exchange stayed with him. Something so small, a moment so insignificant. At the time, he'd dismissed it as idle gossip, chatter amongst a class of people who had not much else to amuse or distract from the burdens of their lives. But at ten years old, there had been a small part of him that entertained the fantasy of being the son of a brave Musketeer. It was after all, his favourite pastime to watch the Royal Guard – then under the command of the Musketeer Captain, Athos – and dream about the wonderful adventures they were able to go on, how courageous and noble they seemed, muskets and swords at the ready.

Inexplicably for years thereafter, he always caught himself observing his father's visage in paintings. Sometimes he would even make a special detour towards the palace galleries to stare at the previous Regent's face, trying to discern whether they shared any similar features. In truth, many always said he favoured his Spanish ancestry. After all, he had his mother's complexion and startling blue eyes. That he was _her_ son was in no doubt.

The older he became, the more he realised he had the power to demand information from people – the _truth_ even from some. He learned that his father had not been the smartest ruler, nor one with the keenest mind. He learned that his mother, his dear mother, had been marginalised tremendously during his father's reign – perhaps the reason he ensured she would not rule in totality after his death. His father had done nothing to help ease his mother's trepidation of her new life in a strange country. If anything, he had contributed to her feelings of loneliness and isolation. It was hard, Louis soon realised, to feel a connection to a man he never knew.

His mother, Anne, was the light of his life, doting and loving. Since he'd assumed the throne at a young age, she was his constant support, proving to be a capable co-regent - fearless, courageous, but mostly kind and gracious. Despite that, she was never well received because of her Spanish heritage. The French had wanted a French Queen and never quite forgave his father for marrying a Spaniard.

When Louis turned thirteen, he realised for the first time that his mother seemed happy. For the years which proceeded, her behavior had not caused alarm - perhaps because it was how he always knew her to be – a little isolated, lonely even. But it had been the year a Cardinal had come to court and together with his mother, became his trusted council.

Louis was instantly fond of Cardinal Mazarin. A man with a surprising physicality, he had a keen mind, sharp wit and a charming personality for one so pious. If nothing else, he seemed to inspire in his mother a new lease on life. She smiled often, seemed lighter of heart than he ever remembered and because he knew of her unhappiness during her former marriage, he did not begrudge her joy. In fact, such was their bond, that he welcomed it. For years he knew of the liaison between the Dowager Queen and the Cardinal. They did not speak of it, but it was an open secret amongst trusted courtiers.

When Louis married at the age of twenty two, the Cardinal flanked him on one side, his mother and Queen, Maria Theresa, on the other. Later that month he had a portrait commissioned of Mazarin as a gift to Anne. When the artist had completed the assignment, Louis remembered staring at the likeness for a long time - something arresting about the sparking dark eyes, the groomed moustache, the broad shoulders encased in crimson and the dark brown hair that seemed to bend to its own will. It was not, he was amused to admit, the hair one expected from a man of God. But he could relate because his own hair was naturally untamable too.

A year after his marriage, Louis met with his Minister for War, Treville. He was the son of the previous Minister, the esteemed Captain Treville, a man who had faithfully led his father's Musketeers. After talk of war and strategy, Captain Treville told Louis tales his father had told him – of brave Musketeers, danger, intrigue, adventure, of honour and loyalty. It was then that Louis learned something he had never known. That Cardinal Mazarin, as a young man, had served amongst the King's Musketeers. Born René d'Herblay, he had been known as Aramis.

That night Louis visited the portrait he had commissioned and felt the earth shudder beneath his feet. The conversation he had overheard so many years ago came back to him, the two servants appearing before his eyes as if they were real and not conjured from a memory.

_The son of a Musketeer._

He stared at the painting. The eyes were different to his own... but the hair, the way it curled, the way it seemed to yearn to break free of its constraints was so familiar. The broad shoulders, the strong jawline, the straight nose was familiar too. He knew he favoured his Spanish connections, but dear God, looking at the painting now, armed with a whisper of a memory, Louis began to wonder.

Twenty three years his parents had been childless before he came. Another two years before Phillipe, his only other sibling. The country had praised God, hailing his birth as a miracle. Was it possible that his mother had taken a lover? Was it possible that that lover had been a young Musketeer? And was it possible that his true father was now a different man, a man of God, a man who'd helped raise him, gave him spiritual and tactical council? A man who for the last decade had become to him the father he'd never had?

His suspicions he kept to himself, but armed with knowledge, Louis was now able to observe this man with keen interest. He learned the Cardinal loved to shoot - a hobby he claimed - but Louis had seen none so precise with a pistol. Around his neck he wore a jeweled crucifix, the very same crucifix he was sure his mother held in a small portrait his grandparents had had painted the year she'd left Spain to come to France.

Mostly though, Louis observed the unparalled affection that the Cardinal had for him and his mother. Mazarin had always taken an interest, encouraging him since he was a young man of thirteen, a boy on the brink of adulthood. Now as a man, the Cardinal even took an interest in Louis's children, the young Princes and Princesses.

His suspicions however remained nothing more than a collection of possible coincidences shaped by a conversation he was never able to forget. That is, until the day his mother requested permission to marry.

"I request your permission to marry him, Louis. We will never acknowledge the union publicly of course, out of deference to his profession and in memory of your father." Her eyes had shone with such hope, such _yearning_, pleading more convincingly than any words she might have offered in mitigation.

"Of course," was all he said. Placing a kiss to her forehead, Louis felt his throat tighten with surprising emotion.

"I leave her care in your capable hands Cardinal," Louis said, his eyes searching, trying to find _something_.

Mazarin stepped forward, placing his large, rough hand over Louis's – _the hand of a Musketeer_. With solemn eyes he vowed, "I will love and protect her with all my strength and heart."

With a jolt of inevitable comprehension, Louis felt the power of truth settle within him. _Strength and heart._ From the moment he was old enough to remember, his mother always referred to her sons (both of them) as _my strength and heart. _

Louis pulled the Cardinal into an embrace, holding tightly to him for a moment. If Mazarin was surprised at the ferocity of the gesture, he gave no sign of it. Looking to Anne, his mother had tears in her eyes – easily explained by the fact that she had his permission to wed. But he knew her emotion came from a different source. Before her stood father and son. Like many things, it was something they would never speak of, acknowledge or admit.

Coincidence became Louis's reality and he knew without further proof that his father was not the previous Regent, but a Musketeer, a man who had cast off the soldier and come to his mother – come to _him_ – as a man reborn.

* * *

_a/n: I am no historian, but a quick wiki tells me that Cardinal Mazarin and Anne were suspected of being secretly married. With Aramis currently in a monastery, I thought this fit. Credit to _**fgfdw**_ on tumblr who posted her theory on Cardinal Mazarin and got me thinking in this direction._

_I am taking prompts. So find me on tumblr at sweetrupturedlight and drop me an ask. Or message me here. Thanks for reading x_


	4. Family

It was strange to be so close to someone - so close in fact - that you treated them like family, so close that the world at large accepted the familiarity as love, a bond, an acceptable closeness between a King, a royal family, and its closest advisor.

Aramis, now Cardinal Mazarin, looked on as Louis, the King of France and his brother Philippe shared a private joke across the room. By his side their mother and his secret wife, Anne watched too, both silent as they appreciated the small pleasure.

"They look so much like you," she whispered, daring only to do so because there was no one close enough to discern the content of their discussion. Aramis looked to her briefly before looking back at his sons.

"Perhaps when I was that age," he said with a small grin. The truth was, they both looked like him - if you knew what you were looking for. But no one suspected their connection and therefore darker, windswept hair or brown eyes filled with mirth was nothing more than a general coincidence. Louis in any case, favoured his Spanish ancestry. Philippe however, he had the look of a Musketeer. But thankfully, his interest in the latest French fashion ensured that he was never quite casual enough to be scrutinised.

From the moment he had met first Louis, then Philippe, he had felt an instant connection to both boys. He was proud to know they in turn too seemed to feel the same affection. The trust between them grew naturally and without any real effort. It felt to Aramis, despite the years of their separation, that he had never been far from them and that in many ways, he had raised them through the most important phases of their lives. In the deepest recesses of his heart he wished he might call them "son". But it was a dream, one he never quite indulged. It was enough, more than enough, he realised, so simply live within their orbit.

Years of sacrifice, years of determination had ensured that he was now where he was destined to be. Beside the only woman he had ever truly loved, raising the sons they had created in love. With his hands clasped lightly behind his back, Aramis showed no outward sign when he felt Anne step close to his side, linking their fingers at the base of his spine. He squeezed gently, wishing he could take her in his arms and place his lips against hers.

Looking at her briefly, he admired her elegant beauty. Time had been more than kind, leaving her matured, but no less exquisite.

"They love you dearly," she said. His heart warmed at her words. Not because they were superfluous, but because he was honoured by the fact that they were true.

"Never as much as I love them," he said softly, his eyes full. "And their mother."

Anne smiled, her face a mixture of many emotions. It had taken them many years to reach this point. He knew she had spent many unhappy years, sidelined and lonely. But all of it seemed to recede into the background. Like a hazy memory that no longer held any power over either of them.

He winked at her discretely before looking back to the two tall men across the room. Louis was all Anne. They had had many conversations about their sons in the privacy of night when they were cloaked in darkness, wrapped in the sanctuary of each other's arms. No matter her counter argument, he was convinced his only contribution – to both of them – was their hair. Louis, he maintained, was all Anne. Intelligent, curious, stubborn and fiercely loyal. He was fair, an engaged and compassionate ruler to a country that was starved for strong, but empathic leadership. His pride knew no limits as he watched him grow from an awkward young boy into a confident ruler of a nation. It never failed to humble that through the miracle of life, he had contributed to half of the man who stood across from him.

He had not been the one to teach his son to ride, or shoot or play a game of chess. But he did credit himself with encouraging him - and demonstrating on occasion - so that he might do those things well, with ease, with the skill and precision of a musketeer.

Aramis heard the boisterous laughter of Philippe and his lips curled in reaction. Philippe was, as Anne would say with great affection, his father's son. Playful, mischievous, an outrageous flirt and unfailingly charming, he was loved by anyone who met him. But beneath the frivolity was a fierce wit and intelligence, rivaled only by his kindness and penchant for affection. Where he spent many hours talking to Louis about strategy and war, Philippe would demand tales of Aramis's travels, the world, music, art and literature. They were very different brothers, but they loved and supported each other nonetheless, each complimenting the other in opposing spheres.

"Cardinal, Mother," Louis called across the room. Aramis inclined his head, offered Anne his arm and they went to meet their sons. "I was just telling Philippe that perhaps it was time he took a bride."

Philippe rolled his eyes, his lips curled in amusement. Aramis was lost for a moment in just how much he reminded him of himself at that age - the mannerisms, the gestures.

"Perhaps Philippe, it is time?" Anne gently prodded.

"He certainly will not want for potential matches. He has become the most eligible bachelor in all of France," Louis said.

"Cardinal, some assistance in assuaging these two of the notion that marriage is somehow a requirement to a fulfilled life."

Aramis chuckled, but at Anne's frown worked hard to keep his face impassive. His eyes could not however, hide his amusement.

"I am quite convinced that when the time is right, you will marry. Until then, I think you have some time yet."

"Ever the diplomat, Cardinal," Louis said.

Philippe smiled. "As always Cardinal, you are the voice of reason." Philippe stepped forward and embraced Aramis. The gesture was spontaneous, like most of his displays of affection. "Thank you."

Aramis hugged him back, meeting Anne's eyes over his shoulder. She smiled and opened her silk fan, waving it as she blinked rapidly.

Philippe clapped him on the shoulder, then looked sheepish for a moment when he realised it was not quite appropriate. It was however, Aramis realised, always how it was between them - curiously informal.

"Your Majesty, your horse has been saddled for your afternoon ride," a footman announced.

"Thank you, Jacques. Cardinal, Philippe, can I interest you in an afternoon ride? I've just acquired a new stallion and he has been saddled."

"When you say _ride_ your Majesty…" Aramis began, quite prepared to spend the afternoon racing across the estate with his sons.

"A contest no doubt," Philippe returned. "I am willing and able."

"Cardinal?" Louis asked.

Aramis nodded. This was what he loved, these moments as a family, even if he was the only one who thought of it as such.

Philippe and Louis moved off and Aramis took a moment with Anne. "I'll make sure they are back in time for dinner," he said.

She nodded and cupped his cheek when they were alone. "Surely this is what happiness should be like for everyone?"

As a man, he was honoured to follow the leadership of his King. As a father to a King and a Prince, he was simply proud to have had any hand in shaping them to be the honourable men he had come to know and love.

"We waited long enough, my love. I do believe so."

* * *

_a/n: From an anonymous on tumblr who asked: Kind of along the same universe as your other one shots, but this time it's from Aramis's point of working with his sons and finally being able to be with Anne. Thank you for reading x_


	5. Strength And Heart

At thirteen, Louis, now King of France was a boy on the brink of manhood. Looking at his physical form, one would have assumed he was advanced by some years. Louis had been blessed with a strong body and mind. Encouraged by his mother, he loved hunting and all manner of activities that involved physical exertion. His cabinet staunchly disapproved but as long as he was careful, the Queen never curtailed him.

"You are like your father," his mother would always say, her eyes warm and loving, as if she recalled a fond memory. "Like he will always be, you are my strength and heart." Back then, the compliment had made him proud. That is, until he began to realise that the previous Regent had not been as omnipotent as he had been made to believe.

When his father had been alive, he had sort the council of Cardinal Richelieu. He never met the Cardinal who died around the time was born, but he knew his father had relied heavily on his judgement. Although Louis was still young, he was astute enough to read between the lines. After all, he had had to grow up, mature and learn the politics of life a lot sooner than most were required to know their left from their right. He came to understand early on that his father had been feared because he was King, and respected only because as Regent, he happened to hold the highest office in the land. There had been very little love for him. In the recesses and privacy of his mind, he called his father weak, a sentiment that shamed him, even if he would not take it back. These words, spoken out loud would be frowned upon – even by his mother – who despite suffering under his frivolous character, did nothing to discredit his memory.

Four months after his thirteenth birthday, Louis met a new Cardinal at the behest of the Queen. He realised that he was young and needed allies whose judgement and experience he could rely upon to assist in making the right decisions for his country. Thus far, his mother had been an invaluable support but he knew that the government had no love for her Spanish connections and he needed to court the assistance and influence of a neutral third party.

"Louis," Anne said, approaching her son one afternoon as he strolled in the palace gardens. Around him courtiers enjoyed musicians playing an array of string instruments, accompanied by one of the most consummate French singers. "This is Cardinal Mazarin."

It was unusual to be approached thus, without the usual formality. He understood then that the meeting was important to his mother and that she wanted him to meet the Cardinal without the pretence and ceremony usually associated with these sorts of things.

"Your Majesty." Cardinal Mazarin was not like any man of God Louis had seen up until then. Perhaps that was why he took an instant liking to him. Instead of the usual supplication and at times judgement that radiated off the clergy at court, the Cardinal was confident and self-assured. His ease with himself was evident in the effortless way he carried himself, the way he respectfully, but determinedly spoke his mind. But mainly, it was the kindness so apparent in his eyes. Kindness and humour. It was the two qualities Louis had learnt to hide – a King should be firm, his tutors had said – but later learned to appreciate because of Mazarin.

After a stroll around the grounds on their very first meeting, Cardinal Mazarin impressed upon him that a King should be compassionate. A King should know his people. And a King should never forget to laugh – even at himself on occasion.

The philosophy called to the soul of a boy becoming a man and so Louis did the only thing he could – he adopted it. Apart from his mother, he had never met anyone he was able to converse with so easily. Years later, armed with knowledge and understanding, he would remember how his mother's eyes shone with such pride when he'd first made the Cardinal's acquaintance, how emotionally charged the moment had been. It felt after a few weeks like he had always known the Cardinal and that in some small way, he had always been a part of his life.

Perhaps part of his charm was the fact that he did not look like a man of the cloth ought to and so Louis did not feel the need to pretend to be more or less than what he was. He had a great physical presence – broad shoulders and a lithe form – quite unusual for the sedentary lifestyle of priests. Cardinal Mazarin also had a thick, uncontrollable cap of hair. Even beneath the zucchetto on his head, the strands curled, appearing as if he were permanently windswept. And yet it did not make him appear silly or ridiculous. It simply suited him in a way it only could with someone so incredibly at ease with himself.

A year after Mazarin had joined his ministry, Louis still struggled with the legacy of his father. In the quiet of his chambers, he spoke to a person he had come to trust with his troubles.

"My father is dead Cardinal, has been for many years and yet I feel the weight of his legacy upon my shoulders." Louis slumped into his chair, dismissing protocol for the time being.

"It is the privilege that comes with being King of a nation." Mazarin stood beside the window, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. There was a stillness, a peace around him that Louis envied. He had mastered the art of patience, a virtue a young King never thought he would be able to learn.

"My father was a simple man who made decisions that did not always have the desired outcome." Louis sighed, rolling his eyes, relieved his mother was not there to see him do it. "God rest his soul." He added the last part as an afterthought.

"You fear making the same mistakes?" _Always so insightful_, Louis thought.

"Do we not have the same blood flowing in our veins?"

The Cardinal looked thoughtful as he looked off into the distance. "The only council I can offer your Majesty, is that you are half Spanish, half French. The combination makes you who you are and offers wisdom, courage and judgement in equal measures. You are your own man Sire."

Louis smiled. "The French would claim I am _all_ French, very happy to ignore the Spanish part of me."

"With respect, the King is dead your Majesty. But your father will always be with you. Here," he pointed to his head. "And here," to his heart. The sincerity and intensity of the sentiment touched and saddened Louis at the same time.

"I remember so little of him. I am not sure if what I remember are stories others have told me or if they are actually my memories."

"Perhaps, your Majesty should see it as an opportunity to be unencumbered by the past. Do not be afraid to forge a path of your own, free of the expectation of others."

Louis ruminated on the advice for a moment before moving from his seat to stand beside the Cardinal. "I do believe Cardinal, that this might be the most honest conversation I have ever had with anyone other than my mother."

Mazarin bowed in deference. "An honour."

"Thank you," Louis said, meaning it sincerely. There was something about this man, something about the warmth in his eyes, the sincerity of his council, the humility of his person and the sharpness of his mind that was an unparelled combination. _And his adventurous spirit_, Louis thought with a small smile. Yes. The Cardinal was an adventurer at heart.

At sixteen, Louis watched the Cardinal duel. Well, perhaps duelling was an exaggeration. But it turned out that he enjoyed sparring with the Royal Guard.

"It keeps the body fit," he told Louis afterwards. "And the mind sharp. To be in control of your movements, to understand the limitations of your body and to utilise _all_ your skills, it is God's gift to us. We are not all blessed with keen wit or intelligence. But we are all made equal in our bodies. If we listen to it, train it and exercise it, it will always serve us well."

That summer Louis realised he had a talent with swords. With the Cardinal's encouragement, he practiced more often and found the sport came to him with relative ease. While it was hard to find an opponent who would genuinely challenge him, he did manage to get Mazarin to spar with him on occasion. Louis would realise years later that those moments - when it was just the two of them, pitting their skill against each other, grunting, sweating and sometimes even cursing - were indeed among the best of his life. It was moments he imagined he would have shared with his father, especially when the Cardinal gazed at him and he saw affection, felt love in the way he always praised and encouraged, or kindly coached when Louis strayed. Deep down, he wished he had known his father and that perhaps he might have been someone more like the Cardinal.

It also became apparent that his mother had taken a lover. The Queen was lighter of spirit and he knew the Cardinal now visited her chambers. If he ought to have been outraged, he was not. To see his mother so happy, and with a man he respected so very much, he gladly turned the other cheek. Once he had even happened upon them in a quiet moment. They never knew he was there, but the gentle way in which Mazarin held Anne had touched a place inside of him. They loved each other, he realised, the weight of their mutual affection evident.

Three years later Louis contemplated a marriage proposal. It was one of the most stressful times of his life. While he knew he would make an attractive husband to any woman, he was surprised at how anxious the entire process of choosing and securing one made him.

"She will accept, your Majesty," the Cardinal advised with a knowing smile as they rode their horses side-by-side. They both enjoyed riding at dawn and so it made sense to ride together when the opportunity presented itself.

"I sense you think me foolish Cardinal."

"Not at all. But what does your instincts tell you Majesty? Did the Lady Maria Theresa seem receptive to your advances during her visit?"

Louis shrugged. "She is beautiful. And it will be a good match."

"A match? It is a _marriage_ Sire."

"Is that not what I am supposed to make? An appropriate if not advantages marriage?"

The Cardinal shook his head, touching his heart as he spoke. "Beauty is but on the surface and fades with time. It is what is on the inside that counts. Does she have courage and endurance? Moving to France will be a new life, a hard one for a woman who has been cossetted by a royal family. Does she seem amiable, of a good temperament, able to adapt? Is she kind? She will be the mother of your children. Will she be able to raise them in the way of God?"

"I am not sure I can ascertain all of this from a handful of meetings."

The Cardinal smiled and Louis realised that he must have known his fair share of women in the past. No man could so comfortably relate to their virtues if he did not.

"Then start with one question only your Majesty. Do you love her? If you love her, if you respect her, then the rest will come."

Guided by those principles, a month later Louis received word that his marriage proposal to Maria Theresa of Spain had been accepted. Three years later, he stood in front of the mirror on his wedding day.

"Are you ready, your Majesty?"

"To be a husband? Someday a father? I hope so." Still, years later, the legacy of his father haunted him. How little he could see of him in his own person. They looked nothing alike. For years he would visit the galleries to try and ascertain whether something had changed, something to bring him closer to the man who had ruled a country and sired him. But the exercise proved fruitless.

Louis looked to the man he had now known for close to ten years. "We have known each other almost a decade Cardinal. It feels as though it has been closer to a lifetime."

There was something in his eyes, something sad, but the expression was gone so quickly the King was sure he had mistaken it as a trick of the light. "It has been my greatest honour your Majesty."

"No," said Louis, earnest as he clasped the Cardinal's arm. "You have proven your loyalty to me and my mother too many times to quantify. And yet, more than that, you have been sacred council, a friend… indeed," Louis smiled, feeling vulnerable, an emotion he had not experienced for many years, "You have been as a father to me Cardinal, when I have never known my own."

For the first time in their acquaintance, Louis saw Mazarin's mask slip. For a moment, gone was the pleasant and controlled and in its place was the face of a man who had lived and perhaps suffered for a long time. Dark eyes shone with the sheen of tears and Louis felt humbled to have brought a man of God to such an emotional place.

"As God bears witness, if I were blessed with a son, he would be like you, Sire."

"What about Philippe? He loves you as much as I do," Louis teased about his flamboyant brother.

Mazarin grinned, his eyes alight with the truest affection. "I would take you both with pride."

It was all he said. It was all he needed to say. The bond between them solidified that day and was now the tangible relationship between an adoptive father and son. Such was the love Louis bore for him.

It would be a handful of years later that Louis felt the ground shake beneath his feet, the core of his beliefs shattered. "Renè d'Herblay," Treville said. "The Cardinal had been born Renè d'Herblay and he had served as the King's Musketeer, Aramis."

The memory of a conversation he had overheard so many years ago filtered into his waking thoughts. _The son of a Musketeer_. There was no evidence, nothing to substantiate the feeling that he belonged to another. And yet, it seemed – or was it that he _hoped_ – that it proved true. His mother he realised, would have known Aramis, would have known him long before he entered the Church.

_Could it prove coincidence that the only lover she took after his father's death was a Musketeer, a man who might very well be his true father_? _Did they not share more in common than he ever would with the previous King? Did they not enjoy the telling of stories of adventure, the sprint of their horses across the land and did they not share equal talent with a sword? _

Louis now noticed how much his brother Philippe actually resembled the Cardinal with his dark eyes and unruly hair. Philippe, always fashionable, covered his hair with wigs in various colours, the resemblance therefore only obvious to someone armed with the suspicion.

One afternoon Louis watched the Cardinal accurately shoot a deer from a remarkable distance. "You shoot Cardinal? I was not aware that men in God's service enjoy such…. base pursuits?"

"While I strive for perfection in God's eyes, your Majesty, I am but a man. And don't all men yearn to sometimes simply shoot at something?" His eyes twinkled with good humour and Louis smiled back.

"Especially if you're aiming at a courtier, Cardinal?"

Mazarin's laughter was loud, spontaneous, infectious and Louis could not help sharing in his merriment.

"Touché, your Majesty."

Louis always visited the portrait he had commissioned of the Cardinal after his wedding years prior and stared at it in fascination. Everything he had searched for in the portrait of his own father he now saw here so clearly - the build, the chin and dear God, the hair. The source of great amusement, Cardinal Mazarin's ungodly hair was the one thing he might have inherited from him.

When his first son was born, Louis watched the Cardinal bless the child, watched the way his mother hovered close by and the way they seemed to dote – like grandparents. They truly were inseparable now – the dowager Queen and her husband. Married with his blessing, but in secret, they were as one – one mind, one heart, one purpose – to love each other and love him. Louis felt that, the love, the caring and the concern. It bled into every part of his life, including that of his own children. He was a better King, a better husband and a better father because of the example set by this man.

For thirty years Louis had the Cardinal in his life before the time came for him to return to God. His mother had died the year prior and Louis knew that the Cardinal had never quite recovered from the loss of his wife.

"_God loves you. Always be true to who you are_." Philippe pressed his lips together, his head bowed in mourning as they stood beside the sickbed. "He always said that to me, always accepted me without reservation. I loved him for it." Louis could not respond; his own emotions too close to the surface as their father took his final breath.

Later, alone with his body after his passing, Louis was the one who closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"God go with you my Father," he whispered, his throat constricting with tears. It would be the first and only time he would ever use the term out loud. "You have been my strength and heart. Rest in peace."

Alone with his father for the last time, he was not a King, only a man. And the proud son of a Musketeer.


End file.
